


in love, but not at peace

by pocky_slash



Series: grace coming out of the void [4]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Feelings, Foreshadowing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: Indrid tries not to interfere too much in the flashes of Barclay's life he sees while he's away, but sometimes he just can't help himself.(Barclay gets a cold, Agent Stern gets suspicious, and Indrid has Too Many Feelings.)





	in love, but not at peace

**Author's Note:**

> Happy My Birthday to You!
> 
> This is probably the smallest audience I've ever written a birthday fic for, but here we are! I don't care! I want more stories about these two being grossly in love and sort of awkward about it!
> 
> The working title for this story was "barclay is sick" but on Twitter I kept calling it "Indrid is Horrified to Discover He is a Person." It is a little about balancing duty and love, but largely about Indrid being super easy for Barclay when he's sick and needy.
> 
> The title is from the Dar Williams song of the same name. No recent spoilers (I think an episode is going up imminently as of the time of my posting this), but there's some vague foreshadowing.

One of the rules that Indrid has set for himself in this, his second attempt at a meaningful relationship with the formerly-estranged love of his very long life, is that he's not allowed to stalk Barclay through possible futures. It was a problem for him in their last go-round: he would get so hyperfocused on every possible outcome of every possible choice that Barclay could make that he couldn't think about anything else. He wasted hours following decision paths for things that never even came close to happening. He wasted entire days trying to ensure that Barclay would be okay, that Barclay wouldn't leave him.

He was scared. He had never cared about anyone the way he cared about Barclay--he still hasn't. He won't. He knows his own future well enough to say that definitively. Having someone so dear to him was like opening himself up to dangers and disaster that he was determined to prevent.

It nearly ruined them, back then. It did ruin them, for a little while. Between his determination to know exactly what was going to happen to Barclay and Barclay's inability to understand and articulate his needs, their relationship shattered and remained that way for years. Time and understanding have helped them piece it back together, but the glue isn't entirely dry yet. Indrid needs to be cautious and thoughtful and allow Barclay to live his own life and make his own mistakes when they're apart.

That being said, sometimes it's hard to look away from what's going on in Kepler. Sometimes the things he sees leave him white knuckling the steering wheel of his Winnebago and driving pointedly in the opposite direction so he doesn't ignore his other responsibilities and swoop into town just to make sure Barclay is okay. 

And then there are the times he sees things that make him shake his head fondly, put his R/V in drive, and make his way down to West Virginia because he just can't help himself.

* * *

The closer Indrid gets to Kepler, the narrower the scope of possible outcomes becomes. The five hours between himself and Amnesty Lodge run down further and further until he's turning off the highway and into Kepler and he's left with just four likely possibilities. When he makes his way through town and towards the mountain, it's down to three. When he turns down the drive to Amnesty Lodge, it's two. When he parks and exits the Winnebago, he's left with one likely possibility and it is, of course, the one he was least enthusiastic about.

So it's with a sigh that he unlocks the front door of and slips inside, hoping for a last minute upset, but unsurprised when he's met with Agent Stern sitting on the lobby sofa, reading a book.

"Oh," Stern says, blinking at him, and it's only by the grace of trying to stay on Barclay's good side that Indrid resists speaking his whole sentence along with him. "I'm sorry, everyone who works here has gone to bed--wait. You're...Barclay's boyfriend?"

Instead of mirroring his words, Indrid forces himself to smile blandly and nod. "Correct. You're Agent Stern."

Stern carefully does not let himself react to that beyond saying, "Oh, has he mentioned me?"

Indrid does not say that Barclay didn't need to mention him. (Though he does, repeatedly. Stern is one of the top five current sources of anxiety in Barclay's life, and for that reason alone, Indrid is none too fond of the man.)

"Once or twice," he says vaguely. "Aubrey has as well. Between the two of them, I feel as if I know everyone here, honestly." If he'd spent two seconds thinking about anything other than slipping into Barclay's bedroom, he would have thought to put his glasses on so he could avoid this awkward stare down. Alas.

"That's nice of them," Stern says. "I don't think I've caught your name?"

A lie, but Indrid doesn't call him on it. Best to remain as normal-seeming as possible to power through this conversation--he doesn't want to cause Barclay even more stress by making Stern suspicious of him.

More suspicious of him.

"Indrid," he says, offering Stern a smile. He's been told his smile is somewhat disconcerting to people who don't know him, but he has to work with what he has.

"Nice to meet you," Stern says, and offers him a hand to shake. It's a power move, of course--Indrid has both witnessed and participated in enough of these handshakes to understand when they're a show of dominance. 

"You as well." He keeps his expression neutral and doesn't flinch at Stern's grip or flex his fingers when Stern finally drops his hand.

"So, Indrid...that's a peculiar name, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's a family name," Indrid says, which is the truth. Sort of.

"Are you from around here?"

Indrid glances at the hallway. He's so close to his goal and he's going to make a point to tell Barclay how _good_ he's being, putting up with this banal nonsense from Stern instead of shoving past him and crawling into bed.

"Here and there," he says. "I travel."

"That's too bad," Stern says. "I'm sure Barclay misses you when you're away."

Unexpectedly, a lump forms in Indrid's throat. He knew this was coming, but the reaction has taken him completely by surprise. It would be fascinating if the wave of regret wasn't weighing him down so much that he's afraid his knees might buckle.

"He does," Indrid says quietly. "I miss him too. We used to--"

He stops himself, cursing silently. This is why he hates unexpected emotion--it's too easy to be swept up into it and say something he never intended. And now, of course, it would seem strange to cut himself off, so he forces himself to calm, to pay attention to his words, and continue speaking as deliberately as he can manage.

"--travel together," he finishes after only a short pause. "We used to travel together. It was no good for him in the long run, but I do miss having him with me."

Stern seems genuinely sympathetic for a moment, which is long enough for Indrid to quickly review the various possibilities of the next five minutes and relax slightly as he sees which is most likely to win out. Sure enough, only a few more seconds pass before Aubrey Little emerges from the hall and into the lobby.

"Indrid?" she says. "I thought I heard you!"

"Hello, Aubrey," he says.

She coughs twice as she crosses the lobby to where he and Stern are standing. She glances at Stern and then at Indrid with her eyebrows raised. Indrid shrugs and she coughs again.

"I guess you heard then, huh?" she says. Her voice is raspy and a little wet. Under normal circumstances, Indrid would take a few steps back from the germ factory, but it seems silly considering where he's headed next.

"More or less," he says. "For a given value of 'heard.'"

She rolls her eyes. "He's miserable," she says. 

He tries to be a little less smarmy and a little more contrite when he says, "I know. That's why I turned around." He debates the pros and cons of filling the silence versus an awkward pause as he waits for what's about to happen and sides with the pause. Stern looks back and forth between them and is about to open his mouth when there's more coughing, this time from down the hall.

All three of them turn and watch as Barclay stumbles slowly towards the lobby. His face is somehow sallow and flushed simultaneously and the circles under his eyes rival Indrid's own. He blinks slowly and then says, muzzy and confused, "Indrid?"

"Hello, my dear," Indrid says. Sometimes he worries that he doesn't know how to be kind or gentle any longer, but he summons every drop of it he can muster as he takes a few slow steps towards Barclay, who does, indeed, look miserable.

"Are you here?" Barclay asks dubiously. "Why?"

"I am here, and it's because I knew you weren't feeling well," Indrid says. Once he's close enough, he presses the back of his hand to Barclay's forehead, though he knows his fingers are too cold and numb to properly assess Barclay's temperature. It doesn't matter--Barclay sags under his touch, swaying to press himself against Indrid's hand. His skin is definitely warm regardless, and though Barclay always feels warm to Indrid, he skips ahead through a few future possibilities and concludes that Barclay is most certainly running a fever.

"I'm so glad you're here," Barclay murmurs. He wraps himself around Indrid and closes his eyes. This time, Indrid doesn't have to work to find that well of kindness at all. He strokes Barclay's hair back from his forehead and returns the embrace.

"I'm glad I'm here too," he says quietly. "Let's get you to bed, hm?"

He waves to Aubrey and Stern and steers Barclay down the hall. It's a little awkward--Barclay is taller and heavier than he is even when he's not a woozy dead weight--but he manages to get them both through the door into Barclay's room. It's chilly, but Indrid accepts that it's probably not a good time to pull out the space heaters. Instead, he helps Barclay settle under the blankets and then leaves him momentarily to change out of his clothes and into a few layers of Barclay's pajamas. By the time he joins Barclay back in bed, he's already half-asleep.

"You didn't have to come," Barclay mumbles.

"Of course I did," Indrid says. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better soon."

"Really?"

"I would never lie to you," Indrid promises.

He means it. Which is a terrifying truth he's going to file away to interrogate some other time. For the moment, he focuses on gently rubbing Barclay's back until he finally falls asleep.

* * *

Indrid doesn't mean to fall asleep. He's used to staying up half the night and he had enough lattes on the way to Kepler that he should have been awake for hours. Still, the combination of a real bed, Barclay's feverish body, and the near-silence of Amnesty Lodge somehow lulled him to sleep, a fact that he only realizes once he wakes up, shivering, in an otherwise empty bed.

He can hear some commotion from down the hall, so he untangles himself from the blankets, grabs one of Barclay's flannel shirts to wrap around his shaking shoulders, and heads towards the noise. He muzzily surfs through flashes of potential futures, but he's too tired to nail anything down outside the immediate future, which is what he reaches seconds later: Barclay, swaying on his feet, standing in front of the kitchen, which Dani is blocking with her arms out.

"No," she says as Indrid hustles across the lobby to join them.

"It's my job," Barclay croaks.

"If any of us has so much as a sniffle you send us away," Dani says. "Those are the kitchen rules. You don't work sick. You need to be in bed."

"I'm the boss, it's different," Barclay says, and then starts coughing. Indrid places a hand on his back, rubbing gently until the coughing subsides.

"I apologize, Dani," Indrid says. "He slipped out after I fell asleep."

"You're not my mother," Barclay grumbles, and then coughs again.

"Put him back in bed," Dani says, pointing a spatula sternly at Indrid. "No work until he can cross a room without getting winded."

"I'm right here!" Barclay tries to protest, but his voice twists and breaks in the middle of the sentence and it isn't nearly as pointed as Indrid is sure he intended. 

"Come on," Indrid says. He nudges Barclay back towards the hall, noticing for the first time the haphazard way he's dressed himself in pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with a mis-buttoned flannel over it. 

"I'm not tired," Barclay insists, but he leans against Indrid and lets himself be led back down the hall.

"Then just come and lie with me for a little while. We can get breakfast once Dani and Adler start serving."

They won't--Barclay is going to fall asleep again in less than ten minutes, wheezing pathetically and curled around Indrid like a limpet. Indrid will ease his way out to get some coffee and pancakes from Dani, have a conversation with a nosy resident yet to be fully determined, then return to bed to sketch until Barclay wakes up again a few hours later. It's likely to be a quiet morning, all told, and Indrid can probably get away with sleeping for a few more hours if he'd like.

"Into bed," he says, guiding Barclay down onto the mattress. "Dani and Adler know what they're doing and everything is going to be fine."

"Really?" Barclay asks, but he's already pulling a quilt up around his shoulders.

Indrid flips through a few possible futures absently and says, "Dani is going to have some trouble properly poaching eggs and Adler is going to make the coffee too weak, but that's the likely extent of their damage."

"Shouldn't even be trying to poach eggs, that's next level stuff," Barclay mumbles into the pillow.

"Sssssshhhh."

Barclay hums and grabs Indrid's hand, pulling him towards the bed. He climbs in after Barclay, leaning mostly up against the headboard and letting Barclay nestle against his hip. It can't be comfortable--Indrid knows he's mostly skin and bones--but Barclay sighs contentedly and wraps his arms around Indrid's waist.

"I hate being sick," Barclay murmurs.

"I know you do," Indrid says. He strokes his fingers through Barclay's damp, matted hair. "Go to sleep, dearheart."

"Mmhm. For a little while."

He's out before Indrid can even decide whether or not to bother with a reply.

Indrid allows himself a moment to study Barclay in repose. It's not the first time he's taken the opportunity to do so since they've been back together, but he can't help himself. Barclay is a puzzle that he's never been able to solve, even after decades together, after years of knowing each other so well that Indrid could finish his sentences without even bothering to look to the future. He suspects the answer to the puzzle is within Indrid himself, but he's not very fond of self-examination, at least not where his feelings are concerned. He can look at his actions and draw certain conclusions, sure, but there's a reason that he hadn't unpacked his feelings about Barclay in almost thirty years before he headed to Kepler to figure out what was changing the future so rapidly.

The concept of love has always terrified him. He was raised as a tool, identified from birth as a future Court Seer, removed from the general public to be educated and informed. He had a role to play for Sylvain, and that was what was important. He couldn't worry about himself and he certainly couldn't worry about anyone else. Nothing could impede on his assignment--the Court owned him. Sylvain owned him. Romantic love seemed...messy. A complication. He had a job to do and pulling someone else into that seemed unwise.

Then he crossed over to Earth to explore on behalf of the Court and everything got so much more confusing.

He didn't have a path anymore. An array of choices for his own future were laid out in front of him and it was difficult to acclimate to navigating those roads. His actions were his to control, and as he slowly adjusted to that, he began to realize just how enjoyable life could be. Indrid fell in love with Earth, but he can't pretend that the vast array of choices, the ability to make his own decision, wasn't the impetus of that.

There was so much more to it than just those choices, though. There were so many things to experience for the first time. Fresh pie and hot, humid days in the summer when he felt warm down to his core. There was traveling, a whole country to explore--a whole world. He loved the freedom of moving around from place to place, experiencing things, and not having to interact with anyone. His social skills were stilted and awkward even on his home planet, even when he wasn't years out of practice. Traveling, he didn't need to know how to talk to people; no one he met stayed in his life longer than a few days before it was on to the next town.

He was terrified, then, when he saw Barclay looming large over his future.

He was terrified for many reasons, to be honest. He hasn't spoken to another Sylph in years. He was coming off of the disaster at the Silver Lake Bridge and was afraid that anything he touched could crumble in disaster in front of him. He hadn't been around anyone else long term since he left Sylvain.

And, stars above, the futures where Barclay stayed with him. The futures where they fell in love. How the hell could he even start to process that? Outside of the court, away from the complications that kept him away from other people for so long, he was out of excuses to push people away. There was no reason to veer off course and away from Barclay, save for the fact that he was terrified.

But Barclay was easy to be with. He was so deeply lonely in those first days, so distant and sad and small. Indrid found that talking came easy, that nudging Barclay through life came easy. Barclay was comfortable. He fit into Indrid's solitary life. Indrid appreciated his company. He made Indrid laugh. And beyond all of that there was just something magnetic about him. There was something about him that made Indrid hungry to spend every moment with him. There was something in him that clicked with something deep within Indrid. It wasn't that he felt whole, necessarily, more like he felt...grounded. Connected. Like there was a line between himself and someone else that was there to guide him if he was lost or afraid.

So yes, when the time came and he absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, he kissed Barclay on the grassy slope of a scenic overlook under a tapestry of starry sky. It was sentimental, but Indrid didn't care--all he cared about was the way that the constant murmurs of potential futures quieted to a whisper as all of his attention zeroed in on Barclay's mouth against his own.

In the here and now, Indrid closes his eyes and cups his hand around the nape of Barclay's neck. Decades have passed, but Barclay is still the only thing that can quiet Indrid's mind. They spent so many years apart, and here they are again, together. Indrid's relationship with fate and free will is complicated at best, but he can't help but feel like this is significant--like he and Barclay have always been meant to end up here.

It's romantic. It's much more romantic than someone who can follow the direct path of fate should be. But here, with Barclay curled around him, vulnerable and trusting and comfortable, Indrid finds he can't be logical, can't be clinical. He found his way back. This is where he was always meant to be. He's glad he's finally made it here.

* * *

Eventually, Indrid wiggles out of bed to get dressed and then hunt down breakfast. He forgoes being seated by Moira and ignores the curious glances from the Sylph population, meandering over to the window into the kitchen and sticking his head inside.

"Hi, Indrid!" Dani says. 

There's the smallest shade of panic in her voice, so he says, "Don't worry, you're going to do absolutely fine with breakfast."

That does seem to drain some of the tension out of her shoulders and she offers him a sunny smile. "Thanks," she says. "Can I get you something?"

"Just pancakes for now," he says. "He's not up for anything quite yet, but I should eat something while I can."

"You're a good guy, Indrid," Dani says.

"I'm really not," Indrid assures her.

He gets his pancakes and prepares his coffee (more creamer and sugar than coffee, really) and looks at all of the empty tables, performing some quick future algebra as he does. There are three to four strong possibilities for his immediate future and, unfortunately, there's little way to escape the more unpleasant options without causing a ruckus or making a mess. Neither of those things are usually deterrents, but he's in Barclay's home and causing a flashy disturbance in the dining area will put Barclay in a bad position in nearly every future.

So he picks a table at random and douses his pancakes in a sea of maple syrup and watches as potential conversations and paths and realities fall away until there's really only one remaining. He doesn't drop his head to the table in frustration, but it's a near thing and he takes a long gulp of sugary coffee to steel himself as Agent Stern approaches his table.

"Hello, again," he says with a forced smile.

"Good morning," Stern says. "You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"

Pleasantries are absolutely absurd sometimes--Stern knows full well that Indrid has no desire to share a meal with him and he also knows that Indrid knows he knows. Yet here they are, standing on ceremony as Indrid shakes his head and gestures towards an empty seat.

"How's Barclay feeling?" Stern asks once he's settled in with his omelette. 

"He's fairly miserable," Indrid says. "Still asleep, for the moment."

Stern nods companionably, thought his gaze is calculating as he watches Indrid eat his pancakes. Indrid should have made a break for it, scene or no scene. What good is seeing the future if you continually get caught up in awkward conversations you can't avoid?

"Well, it's good of you to come out to look after him," Stern says. "How did you two meet, anyway?"

Well, this conversation is certainly going to be frustrating.

"We grew up in the same place," Indrid says. He shoves another forkful of pancakes in his mouth--there's no reason he has to be polite if he's going to be forced to have this conversation and play nice. "We bumped into each other years later in Chicago. We were both wandering rather aimlessly at that point and I recognized him and offered to let him travel with me."

"That's sweet," Stern says, though he can't hide the way he winces at Indrid talking through a mouthful of pancakes. "What is it that you do that has you traveling so much?"

"Freelance consulting," Indrid says breezily. "Boring stuff."

"What sort of consulting?" Stern asks, casually cutting into his omelette, but glancing up at Indrid too many times to not have an agenda.

"I help people keep track of potential outcomes for projects," Indrid says, with practice that's eased along by the clear picture in his mind of himself saying the words. "Help them out of tight situations. That sort of thing." He waves vaguely and Stern nods.

"Interesting," he says. "Are you from around here, then?"

"Here and there," Indrid says. He tries to eat faster. "I'm mostly nomadic these days. This is probably--"

He stops, frozen once again by a truth he hasn't thought about particularly hard up until this point. Dammit.

"Hm?" Stern prompts as the silence grows. Indrid swallows his food.

"This is probably the closest thing that I have to a home, now," he says slowly.

He has no particular attachment to Amnesty Lodge as a location. He appreciates the service it provides Sylphs and he likes that it's remote enough that he can fly under the radar while visiting, but the building holds no nostalgia or significance to him. What he really means is that the closest thing he has to a home is Barclay. Perhaps, also, Aubrey and Duck and Ned, but mostly just Barclay--the only person left whose life he holds in higher regard than his own.

Because he does hold Barclay's life in higher regard than his own. When he was younger, he used to resent that--it was one more thing that made him angry at Barclay in the months that led up to their final separation. This go-round, it's something he's approaching with caution, still. He promised both Barclay and himself that he wouldn't let himself fall down the rabbit hole of obsessively tracking Barclay's fate the way he used to, but there are days it's difficult, knowing that Barclay is miles away and running into danger every other month. He wants to protect him, to save him, to keep him around as long as possible. He needs to remind himself that a better alternative might be to be more appreciative of the time they have together while they have it.

"That's very--" Stern starts to say, but Indrid abruptly gets to his feet, his chair shrieking across the floor loudly enough that people turn to stare.

"I'm sorry," he says, aware that he doesn't sound sorry at all, "I have to go see Barclay."

He leaves his coffee, his half-finished pancakes, and strides down the hall briskly until he's back at Barclay's room. He pauses outside for a moment, catching his breath and willing his staccato pulse to calm before he opens the door and slips inside.

It's still dark and warm. Barclay is still asleep. Indrid's heart is still hammering against his ribcage. 

Appreciate the time they have together. He needs to appreciate the time they have together. And it's more, of course, than they would have if they were human, but still not nearly as much as he would like, especially after all those years they've wasted.

He doesn't know where this sentiment has come from, why he's suddenly overcome with this knowledge, but he doesn't fight it, at least not right now. Instead, he squeezes himself into the space left between Barclay's sleeping body and the wall. He fits perfectly; it's like he was meant to be there.

And who is the Mothman to defy fate?

* * *

Indrid is calm once again by the time that Barclay rouses from his fevered sleep, though not so calm that he's abandoned the bed for his sketching as he initially planned. Barclay rolls over, nearly rolls on top of Indrid, and then shifts with a grunt so his face is pressed against Indrid's chest and the rest of him is buried deep in the blankets.

"Are you awake, then?" Indrid asks, burying one hand in Barclay's hair.

"You tell me," Barclay grumbles, the hoarse pitch of his voice vibrating pleasantly against Indrid's sternum.

"Hard to say," Indrid says, though he doesn't bother with his usual complex future math. "Do you need anything?"

"You're being very nice to me." It's another slurred grumble right up against Indrid's chest.

"Yes, well, you're very handsome," Indrid says. He strokes his fingers through Barclay's hair and bites back a smile when he chuckles. "That doesn't answer my question, though." As he says it, he gets his answer, but it's polite to wait. He usually doesn't care much about being polite, but the past twenty-four hours have proven that he's willing to make concessions for Barclay when he's this miserable.

"Mm. Something warm?" 

"I think I can manage that." He tries to shift himself into a sitting position, but Barclay's grip on him tightens at the movement. "I do need to leave the bed in order to do it, however."

"You just got here," Barclay mumbles.

"No," Indrid says, "I've been here the entire time. _You_ just woke up."

"Same difference."

"Not remotely." He shifts again and Barclay sighs. "Let me up and when I come back we can delve into your object permanence issues."

"Will we really?" Barclay asks. He raises his head and blinks slowly at Indrid and it's really, truly, unreasonably pathetic. It's the sort of look that makes Indrid want to give everything up and be _domestic_ in Barclay's general direction.

"No," Indrid says, clearing his throat and forcing himself out from under the thrall of Barclay's sleepy gaze. "You're going to have your drink and complain about feeling poorly and I'm going to make supportive noises at you until you're awake enough to be bored and suggest something else." He lets the end of the sentence linger, both to imply something untoward, which is perhaps more like him than this sentimental streak he's been on today, but also because he's always half in danger of narrating the next six hours beat by beat when he's confronted with a situation that he can't quite wrap his head around. More often than not, these situations involve Barclay in some way.

"Fine," Barclay says, and releases Indrid who, antithetically, is immediately disappointed at the loss of contact.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Indrid promises, and then forces himself off of the bed, shivering as soon as the collected body heat is released from under the blankets. He's already wearing a flannel and a sweater belonging to Barclay over top of his own clothes, but he pulls another sweater over his head before heading out to the kitchen, jolting a little at the shock when he touches the metal door knob, despite expecting it. 

The lobby is largely empty and the few people he does see look just as sluggish and off-color as Barclay and Aubrey. He ignores them, as they ignore him, and slips into the dark and empty kitchen. He's been in the kitchen with Barclay a few times since they've reunited, but Barclay insists on a truly staggeringly level of control over the space and Indrid is forced to rely on the half second delay of his visions of the immediate future in order to pull out everything he needs. Kettle under the stove, tea in the far cabinet, Barclay's favorite personal mug buried behind some condiments, far away from the dishes for general lodge use. He sets the kettle to boil and waits either for it to whistle or for Mama to come in. Whichever comes first. It's still up in the air.

He puts a tea bag in the mug. He hears the hiss that precedes the kettle screeching. Mama steps into the kitchen just as he turns the burner off.

His timing is still good.

"Oh," she grunts.

"Yes," he replies, pouring water into the waiting mug.

"The Boyfriend," she says, a wary sort of greeting.

"Madeline," he replies, nodding at her. She scowls.

"There a reason you're pokin' around my kitchen?"

He doesn't say, _it's really Barclay's kitchen._ He's getting so good at self-control.

"Making a drink for Barclay," he says instead, even though he knows how this conversation ends. He pauses for a moment to be sure he has the right cabinet, then opens the door and pulls out the honey, drizzling a good amount into the tea. "Tea with honey."

She looks at the mug, wrestling with herself, before coming to a decision. Indrid has already seen her come to this decision, so he says, "Yes, I'd love some whiskey for it." He could have said the words with her, but it's possible she would have punched him if he did. Despite what Barclay may think, he does occasionally have some amount of self-preservation.

Still, Mama stares at him silently for a moment. 

"Barclay's lucky he's indispensable," she says eventually, "because you're one annoying son of a bitch."

"You're not the first to say so, by far," Indrid says. "Whiskey?"

"Follow me," she says.

She leads him down the hall to the office he's seen dozens of times in various visions. It's a mess, every surface piled with files and books and empty plates and unopened mail and loose papers. Barclay is going to be deeply disappointed and demoralized when he's well enough to see this again. 

"This is our secret," she warns him with a pointed finger. "I don't wanna come home to find Jake doing shots with my good whiskey cause word got round about where I stash it."

"I make a point of only speaking to Barclay, Aubrey, and Dani," Indrid assures her. She glares at him from narrowed eyes before finally deeming him trustworthy and moving towards one overstuffed bookcase. He doesn't bother telling her that he knows where everything in her office is already and he knows everything that's going to be stolen from her office in the next few months. The whiskey isn't going anywhere.

She pushes aside some books and pulls out a bottle of whiskey from a local distillery, presenting it to Indrid. He places the mug--three quarters full--down on one of the few clear areas of the desk and then takes the bottle. He's not much of a whiskey drinker himself, but it's been Barclay's drink of choice as long as Indrid's known him. Back in their time together it was usually nowhere near as good as what he's currently pouring into this mug. He puts the cap back on the bottle and hands it back to Mama.

"Thanks," she says, but she doesn't move to put it away. Indrid is cursed to live out the most awkward of all the possible timelines today, it seems. "Barclay's important to me."

"He's important to me, too," Indrid says.

"Yeah, well, you sure as shit didn't treat him like it."

The only reason Indrid isn't fleeing already is that he knows Mama is equally important to Barclay. Getting along with her will make Barclay's life easier. It will make Barclay happier.

And, okay, he does sort of deserve this. A little.

"Both of us made mistakes," he agrees. "And--" he continues before she can speak, "--I had many opportunities to try and make it right, and instead of doing that, I stayed away. Because I was afraid. I regret that." She huffs. "And I don't intend to leave him like that again." He pauses and considers what to say next. All of the choices are bearing down on him and making it hard to figure out what's really the most important thing to explain. What's really the most important thing for Mama to take away from this interaction. "I love him. You don't know me, so you can't understand how important that is to me. You can't understand how rare and precious this relationship is in my life. All I need for you to understand is that I've lived without him and it was terrible and I don't intend to do it again. I can't be what he needs all the time, and I used to think that meant I was bad for him. I've learned that what it really means is that he needs more than just me to thrive. I've learned that running away isn't what's best for him--what's best for him is giving him everything I can. He has all of you--I just have him. And that's okay, but it means I can't let him slip away again."

Mama stares at him, expressionless. Indrid's heart is racing once again, because once again, he's said far more than he intended. Mama's scrutiny is making him sweat and the hot toddy in his hands is starting to burn his fingertips through the ceramic of the mug.

"Yeah, okay," she finally says, breaking eye contact. "I suppose you ain't the worst he can do, then. Go on, bring him that before it gets cold."

"Right," Indrid says, and stumbles off before he spills anymore of his messy feelings out into the world.

He moves quickly through the halls of Amnesty Lodge, but remains careful not to spill the mug in his hands. Two dozen futures where he ends up wearing Barclay's drink flicker past him, but he makes it all the way to the other side of the bedroom door without incident. He's breathing harder than he should be, probably, and he freezes for a moment just inside the door, eyes squeezed shut as he centers himself. He pushes the buzz of a thousand different outcomes to the day out from the forefront of his mind and instead breathes and concentrates on the burning in his lungs and the heat of the mug in his hands. When he opens his eyes again, Barclay is peering at him curiously from bed.

"Everything okay?" Barclay asks softly.

"Fine." Indrid clears his throat. "Everything's fine. I brought you something warm to drink, because I'm an excellent boyfriend."

"You'll do," Barclay says, a sure sign that he's feeling at least slightly better than he was last night or earlier this morning.

But maybe not that much better--when Indrid approaches the bed, instead of taking the mug, Barclay hugs him tightly around the middle. Indrid lays one hand gently on the top of his head. He's lightheaded and his heart is in his throat for a precarious second, still stuck in the emotional whiplash of this afternoon. 

Barclay pulls away and holds his hands out expectantly. "Give me."

Indrid obliges.

"And get back in bed."

Indrid does that, too.

Barclay has created a blanket nest in Indrid's short absence, a pile of all the pillows surrounded by all of the blankets. Indrid has no choice but to curl up right in the center of it all, nearly on top of Barclay. Not that he's complaining. 

"Is this a hot toddy?" Barclay asks after he's taken a sip.

"Yes," Indrid says. "Is there a problem?"

"I just didn't think I had any whiskey," Barclay says.

"You didn't," Indrid says. "Mama offered."

Barclay blinks slowly. "She...offered?"

"Yes."

"...of her own free will?"

"I can be charming!"

Barclay makes a small, doubtful noise. "Since when?"

"I can be very charming when I want to be!" Indrid insists. "I charm all sorts of people all the time."

Barclay continues to stare at him dubiously. It's another sign he's feeling slightly better, so Indrid caves without further argument.

"Fine," he says, "it was less charm and more a shared desire to make you feel better."

Still, the truth has Barclay beaming at him, as if this is proof that Indrid and Mama will get along from now on. Indrid doesn't have the heart to disabuse him of that notion.

They're quiet as Barclay sips his drink. He's more alert than he's been since Indrid showed up last night, though his eyes are still red-rimmed and surrounded by dark, exhausted circles. He sighs as he finishes, putting the empty mug on the end table.

"You're bored," Indrid says at the same moment that Barclay says, "I'm bored." Barclay scowls at him.

"You shouldn't leave the lodge," Indrid continues. "And you're not well enough to make lunch--I know you're not hungry anyway. But...." He flicks through some possibilities. "Aubrey and Dani are about to put on a movie and we can go out and watch it with them."

Barclay seems to consider this for a moment before sighing again.

"Fine," he says.

"If you have a better idea, I'm open to it," Indrid says lightly. After a beat he adds, "I know you don't."

"You're kind of the worst," Barclay says, but he pushes himself up and slowly gets out of bed. 

Indrid helps him change into clean pajamas, then grabs a quilt from the bed and follows him out into the lounge area. Dani is already kneeling by the television, while Aubrey reclines on one of the sofas.

"Hey," she croaks as they approach.

"We're going to join you, if it's alright," Barclay says. He pauses and turns to Indrid. "What are they even watching?" Then, as if realizing his error, turns back to Aubrey and says, "What are you even watching?"

" _Ladyhawke_!" Aubrey says, and then sputters into another cough. Indrid can't say he's familiar with it.

"Really?" Barclay asks. He glances at Indrid, and then smiles a little. "Okay."

Indrid sits on the other sofa and hands Barclay the blanket, unsurprised when he curls up immediately with his head in Indrid's lap. Indrid lays a hand gently on the top of his head, brushing the tips of his fingers through his hair.

"You weren't even born yet when this movie came out, were you?" Barclay asks Aubrey.

"Nope," Aubrey says. "It was...1985, I think? But it was one of my mom's favorites. We would watch it together whenever I was home sick from school."

"That's really sweet," Dani says. She gets up and moves to sit on the floor in front of Aubrey, leaning back against the sofa as the movie begins.

It's about ten minutes into the movie when Barclay speaks again, soft and private.

"Do you remember what we were doing in 1985?" 

Indrid glances over at the other couch, but Aubrey is half-asleep and Dani is engrossed in the movie. He thinks for a moment, hopping back through the years.

"Fighting?" he offers wryly. "Constantly?"

Barclay lets out a soft huff. "Besides that."

 

"Not in particular," Indrid says. The mid-eighties are a blur to him--something was happening with his premonitions. The entire world seemed on the brink of ending and he was assaulted constantly by visions of destruction and carnage. It's something that happens occasionally, and he wonders, now, if it had anything to do with the shifting location of the gate. It was the late eighties when the gate appeared in Kepler--perhaps his years of unrest were related to that.

"We were driving all around the country," Barclay says. "Constantly. It felt like we never stopped. You would get so quiet and intense and just drive all through the night until we were somewhere else. I thought you were going to pass out behind the wheel and kill us both."

Indrid doesn't remember all the specifics, but what Barclay says rings true. He remembers the restlessness of that period of their lives, the headache that frequently lingered behind his eyes. He counts back through the years until he lands on 1985, which only confirms it.

"It was a bad year," Indrid says. "Both for things that happened and things that almost happened." The things that didn't happen were almost worse. To get so tied up in trauma that never came to pass...well, there's a reason he tries to keep his premonitions at arm's length. The relentless cascade of them in the mid-eighties made that hard, and his temperment certainly paid for it. It dovetailed with Barclay's insecurities to create a perfect storm of misery in their relationship.

"You were just twitchy and distracted all the time," Barclay says. "I did all sorts of things to try and distract you, including taking you to this movie."

Indrid blinks. " _This_ movie?" He gestures at the screen.

"Yes, this movie," Barclay says. "It was late summer. Maybe early September? It was at a tiny second run theatre in...god, I think it was California. We were driving around this little town and you looked...tired. I suggested we stop at the R/V park outside of town and walk in for dinner and a movie. You were so tired that you didn't even argue."

"I don't remember this at all," Indrid murmurs. He reaches for it--it shouldn't be that hard, Barclay hated going to California and they only made a few trips there over the years, but the memory still eludes him.

"I'm not surprised, you were distracted through the whole thing," Barclay says. "You couldn't sit still. Afterwards, you took off for a few hours. I think you just flew around the woods to clear your head."

It's slowly inching back to him now, the slightest shade of a memory, a shadow of sitting in a movie theatre, unable to concentrate, anchored by Barclay holding his hand.

"A bomb," he murmurs absently. His hand stills in its gentle glide through Barclay's hair. "There was going to be a bomb, and then there wasn't--he was caught before he could set it. I saw the explosion for weeks." He remembers, now, that vision, but the night in question is still a blur.

"I made myself go to bed eventually," Barclay continues. "I was pacing. I was on the precipice of an anxiety attack, wondering what would happen if you got caught or left. And, of course, as soon as I finally managed to fall asleep, you showed up at three am, blind drunk, knocking into everything in the Winnebago."

"I have no memory of this," Indrid says. He feels guilty all the same, guilty for worrying Barclay all those years ago. Guilty for waking him up and making a mess and not talking to him. It's silly--they're past it, obviously, they're here now, mostly content, but the guilt lingers.

"Well, you fairly reeked of vodka, so that's not surprising," Barclay says. Indrid winces. "You were ranting and senseless, mostly, but you told me everything. About the bomb that wasn't. All the things you saw that didn't happen and almost happened. About how you didn't know why you cared about this world so much sometimes. You were so angry with yourself for caring so much." 

Barclay shifts then, from his side to his back. He's looking up at Indrid now, and he still has the sickly pallor of a stubborn cold and the dark bags under his eyes from sleeping too much, but his eyes are clear and present as he gazes upward. Indrid struggles not to look away. 

"I think...." Barclay starts to say, and then pauses, glancing away for a moment. When he looks back, he says, more firmly, "I think stayed years longer than I would have otherwise. I just kept thinking of how upset and earnest you were, how much you cared. How much you loved this planet, even when you were too stubborn to show it. These moments of stripped back despair that made it clear how much you wanted to help. I would think about leaving, in those last few years, and I would remember your face that night and remember how much I loved you. How fiercely I loved you in that moment."

The roar of a million futures stemming off of this moment is almost deafening. Indrid has to consciously force them back to focus instead on Barclay's tired face scanning his own for a reaction. He tries to breathe and wonders, desperately, why this keeps happening to him. Why years of distance haven't taught him restraint. Why being confronted with these feelings makes him want to abandon his life, his purpose, to do whatever he can to make Barclay happy. What is the point of being able to see the future if his feelings keep blindsiding him anyway?

He tries to remember if this is the way he felt forty years ago. Fifty years ago. Was this the way he felt the evening he first kissed Barclay, certain that he was on the right path? Was this the way he felt in those contented middle years while they built a life together? He doesn't think it is. Time has done this to him, time and deprivation and loneliness and distance. He knows, now, what the past was and what the future will be. He's been on his own and learned that stoically doing his job out in the world isn't as fulfilling as lying here on the couch, watching an old movie while Barclay dozes against him.

He can't let himself have this life. He can't, he can't, he can't. His job isn't done yet.

He brushes his thumb along Barclay's cheekbone. He doesn't know if that's the right thing to say. There's no consistent path from here, no clear future laid out, no steps for him to follow. A million possibilities are screaming at him at once, so the easiest thing to do is ignore them all and do what his heart wants him to do. 

"It was hard, after you left," he says. "Letting myself care, I mean. I deserved it--what we had wasn't sustainable. But it was hard. I'd think, sometimes, about how much you cared about everything. About how you went out of your way to make friends and learn names and be helpful. It was such a reversal of how we were when we first met, but it reminded me to be...well, if not kind, at least patient."

Barclay smiles at him. "I'm glad," he says. Then, "You already missed this movie once. You should watch it this time."

"If you insist," Indrid says, but when Barclay rolls over again to see the screen, Indrid finds his own eyes drifting downward instead instead, as his hand resumes it's slow path through Barclay's hair.

He misses Ladyhawke for the second time, watching Barclay even after he drifts off to sleep, and thinking about the framework they've adopted for their relationship. They had a long conversation, a series of them, really, about what was and wasn't feasible for them at this point in their lives. It was based on practicalities and responsibilities and Indrid was so proud of himself afterwards. He was making a healthy decision--he couldn't remember the last time he had made one of those. He was doing what was best for himself and what was best for Barclay and they were going to be mature and communicative and they were going to make this work.

He didn't count on this, though. He didn't count on the way his heart aches both when they're apart and when they're together, reminding him that they'll be apart again soon. He didn't think this longing would be so distracting and so powerful. He didn't think it would be so hard to go out and do his job, knowing that Barclay was here without him.

The problem with his premonitions is that they're nothing more than flashes of events, suggestions of dialogue. He told Aubrey and Duck and Ned that it was like watching a million television screens, and that's still the closest he can come to explaining it. When you're watching a movie, you might feel _for_ the characters, but you don't feel what they're feeling. When he's seeing himself move through life, it's so much easier to make good choices. When he's actually moving through life, the feelings are like an assault.

It's worse, he thinks, because Barclay is sick. He's quiet and vulnerable in a way he frequently isn't. He needs someone to take care of him. That, Indrid's sure, is what's making it so difficult this time. That's the reason he feels scraped out and hollow at the thought of leaving. 

There are things he needs to do. There are things _Barclay_ needs to do. The course they're on, the only one that doesn't end in total ruin, is fragile. Things between Sylvain and Earth are going to come to a head, and there are infinite realities where there's nothing left in the dust afterwards. There are a precious few where the worlds both survive and even fewer where both he and Barclay escape unharmed. He can't stray from them, not now.

There's a chance this could all change five days from now or five hours from now or five minutes from now, of course. That's what the future does. But until the outcome is different, Indrid can't risk stepping off the path in front of him, no matter how badly he wants to be here with Barclay instead of out in the world, setting things in motion. He can't risk altering the future, even if that means stepping back and letting events play out in his absence.

Even if that means leaving Barclay's safety up to fate.

* * *

Barclay wakes up not long after the movie ends. With Aubrey still asleep, Dani in the kitchen to start dinner prep, and at least half of the lodge recuperating from the same cold that's wiped Barclay and Aubrey out, the room is quiet and still, the sun on the verge of setting.

"Hello," Indrid says when Barclay shifts to sit up. He swoons a little at the movement and Indrid is already steadying him, murmuring, "Careful, careful."

"Time'sit?" Barclay mumbles.

"Doesn't matter," Indrid says. "You don't have anything to do or anywhere to be."

"Doesn't mean I can't know the time."

"I don't know what time it is, someone's been sleeping on me for ages and I'm not wearing a watch."

"Hmph." Barclay tries to maintain his haughty pout, but he tips his head onto Indrid's shoulder and closes his eyes almost immediately. Indrid rubs his back, warm from sleep.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No," Barclay mumbles against his shoulder.

"Thirsty?"

"No."

"Do you want to go back to sleep?"

Barclay is quiet for a moment. "It's so early," he says finally. "I just woke up."

Precognitive or not, Indrid is fluent in Barclay's self-sacrificing behaviors, even after all these years.

"You're sick," he says. "You can sleep whenever you want and no one will notice or care. It's perhaps the only perk to being sick."

"N'you."

Indrid blinks. "Pardon?" he says, even as the answer plays out in the surround sound stereo of a thousand futures.

"And you," Barclay says. "You're a perk. You're here. It's worth it."

Indrid is quiet. He's suddenly so, so tired.

"Help me," Barclay mumbles as he tries to push himself off the couch, oblivious to the weight of his words and how thoroughly they've rocked Indrid. It's been a whole day of being throw off course by Barclay, to be honest. He should leave while he still can, while he still has the strength to walk away. Soon, he fears, he won't be able to turn his back on Barclay, even though he knows he has a role to play somewhere else.

He doesn't leave, though. He gets to his feet and helps Barclay up. He leads them down the hall, back to Barclay's room, with Barclay swaying on his feet the whole way.

It's been a long day and it's not even over yet.

Barclay crawls back into his blanket nest once Indrid gets him into the room, and gestures for Indrid to join him. Indrid sits on the edge of the bed and smooths out the blankets covering Barclay's chest.

"You should sleep," he says.

"I will," Barclay insists. "Come sleep with me."

Indrid wants to protest or maybe twist the request into an innuendo or joke. Instead, he finds himself stripping off a layer or two of clothing and crawling into bed at Barclay's side. He shouldn't. There's work he should be doing, events he should be watching from a distance, even if he can't be present. None of it is pressing, though, and he really is exhausted. 

Indrid props himself up on the pillows and allows Barclay to rest against his chest, gently stroking his back. He's quiet for so long that Indrid is sure he's fallen back to sleep.

"How long can you stay?" Barclay asks, finally. Indrid closes his eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't ask me that."

"I know. Sorry." And he sounds it. "I'm just...tired. I just want you here. Always, but especially now."

"I know," Indrid says.

He thinks about everything that's going to happen between the time he leaves Kepler and the time he returns. He thinks about all of the strife that Barclay is going to face, that all of them are going to face. He watches futures where they win and futures where he loses Barclay forever while he's miles away, his heart breaking in an entirely different time zone.

There are so many possibilities. Too many possibilities. He came to terms with the fact that he can't save everyone a long, long time ago. He doesn't know how to come to terms with the fact that he might not be able to save this one person who means so much to him.

"I don't want to go," Indrid admits softly. He can't bring himself to look at Barclay. His throat is thick with something--maybe shame. Maybe desperation.

"You don't have to." Barclay's voice is rough from constant coughing and he's so quiet that Indrid considers pretending be didn't hear him at all. 

They've come too far for that, though. He cards his fingers through Barclay's hair and watches a hundred thousand futures play out in his mind.

"I do," he murmurs. "I do, I do, my dear. I'm sorry."

Barclay sighs, but doesn't object. Indrid almost wishes he would, but they've known each other far too long to have this fight. They've talked this to death since taking these tentative steps back into a life together. There's nothing left to say.

Except maybe this: "But not yet. Right now, I have nowhere else to be but here."

Barclay doesn't respond, but some of the tension eases out of his shoulders. He relaxes in Indrid's arms, his breathing evening out as they lay there in the darkness.

Indrid can't stay forever, not yet. But he's not leaving tonight and he's not leaving tomorrow and right now, in this moment, he doesn't have any desire to look past that. Whatever future is waiting for them can continue to wait just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday, so you should leave me a comment. I think that's internet law.


End file.
